


Nine Times Jack O'Neill Broke A Bone

by draco_somnians



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e18 Solitudes, Explicit Language, Injury, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draco_somnians/pseuds/draco_somnians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's broken leg in Solitudes is his 9th broken bone. What about the other 8?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Times Jack O'Neill Broke A Bone

**1.** Jack tosses the action figure over the railing, watching as its home-made parachute opens and slows its descent. As the GI Joe glides to the hardwood floor and lands with a soft bump, his brother cheers and both of them grin at each other.

They're not supposed to play upstairs; they both know that, but their mother is out in the yard and she thinks they’re watching cartoons. And if she finds out they made a parachute from her silk blouse, they’re in big trouble.

“Can we do it again?” Mikey asks and Jack nods.

“Go fetch it,” he says and his little brother bounds down the stairs, snatches the Joe up off the floor and runs back up, taking the steps two at a time. Jack untangles the strings, smoothes the silk back out and hangs the figure over the railing again.

“Ready?” he asks, and Mike nods eagerly.

Again, the perfectly-constructed parachute works as it should. Jack can hardly believe they got it right this time. The first one they made was paper and that was a disaster. The one made out of the corner of a bed sheet was even worse. The corner with a square missing is still tucked tightly under Jack’s mattress and he doesn’t know how he’s going to get away with that.

“Can you make one big enough for a person?” Mikey asks. Jack shakes his head.

“_I_ can’t,” he says. They’re both peering down at the floor, where the Joe lies in exactly the same spot as last time.

“Think you can jump down?” Mike asks, a hint of a dare in his voice.

Jack considers how high up they are, climbing over the rail is going to put him even higher. Maybe he could hang down and then drop, like he’s always been told to do from the windowsill if he’s trapped upstairs in a fire. He wonders if that counts as “jumping”.

“Maybe,” he says. “It might hurt.” Jack knows that floor is _hard_.

He glances over at Mike, who is grinning at him now, his eyes holding a familiar challenge. Jack grabs the top of the railing, pulls himself up and over the top and only pauses when he’s balanced precariously on the other side. He makes the mistake of looking down and he almost backs out, but then his eyes meet the blue ones on the other side of the wooden spindles and a fierce determination takes over. He can do this. He just has to remember to bend his legs when he lands. And roll, just like the paratroopers.

But he doesn’t. He lands with a loud thump and a sickening crack. Pain shoots up his right leg and he falls flat on his back. As he stares as the ceiling, in too much pain to make any kind of noise, he hears his brother scream. His head swims and black spots dance in front of his eyes. His mother comes running in, takes one look at him and pales, urging him not to move.

  
He’s in a cast for the whole summer holidays, doesn’t even miss any school and Jack thinks it’s a waste of a good dare.

  


**2.** Jack’s sitting in the cafeteria, eating his lunch and minding his own business. Keeping his head down like he’s been told to. He knows he’s on the verge of being kicked out and his parents have practically begged him to just stay out of trouble until he graduates.

It’s not so easy.

Especially when Billy Weston grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and drags him to his feet, sending his lunch tray flying and making everybody turn around and stare.

“You’re dead, O’Neill,” Billy growls.

Jack feels the anger building in his chest. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to get into a fight, get the first punch in and hope the guy stays down; but his dad’s pleas are ringing in his ears. He takes a deep breath and tries to back away, holding his arms out to the side and hoping he can get out of this.

“Look man, I didn’t know she was your girlfriend...”

Billy snarls, his fists clench by his side and Jack is expecting to be punched. So when Billy’s forehead connects with Jack’s nose, it takes him completely by surprise.

The pain is immense and when he lifts his hands to his nose, they come away covered in blood.

  
**3, 4 and 5.** He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this, it’s becoming routine, automatic, but it never gets old. That rush of freefall is unlike anything else in the world. This time though, there’s something wrong. He pulls the rip cord and nothing happens. He tries not to panic; he has a back-up and that’s what it’s there for. Only that doesn’t work either. He’s rapidly losing altitude and it was a low jump to start with.

He tries the cord again. And then again. He can’t breathe and he’d always thought that the whole “life flashing before your eyes” thing was just a figure of speech.

Eventually, his ‘chute makes a half-assed attempt to open and slows him down a little, but not enough. He has to make sure he rolls. If he’s got any chance of surviving this, he has to roll. Curl up and just hope for the best. And for God’s sake roll left Jack, he tells himself. He’s right-handed so if he’s gonna fuck his body up, it can’t be his right side.

He hits the ground hard and somehow manages to throw his body left. His left leg buckles and something pops in the general area of his hip, and as he rolls, his head thuds on the ground and he blacks out.

  
When he wakes up, he can’t move. The low sun is glaring in his eyes when he blinks them open, which send a fresh wave of pain through his head.

Concussion.

He’s had it enough times to know, but this is the worst he’s had. He feels a desperate urge to throw up, but fights it; he’s in the desert and he can’t afford to get dehydrated by chucking his guts up on the sand.

Suddenly, the enormity of what happened sinks in. He’s just hit the ground after a failed parachute jump...

He still hasn’t moved and he tries to wiggle his toes. He doesn’t know if he’s managed it or if his mind is playing tricks on him; if his wishful thinking has taken over. He probably shouldn’t move; if he’s damaged his spine...but he can’t just lie here. There won’t be a rescue, he knew that going in, and he’s alone; completely alone out here in the scorching desert.

He has to move, has to get out of the sun. He unclips his parachute, rolls onto his belly and almost screams as pain shoots up his leg and up his left arm. When he looks down he can see the jut of bone sticking out just below his elbow. It hasn’t broken the skin yet. He doesn’t even want to try and look at his leg; moving into a position that would allow that is going to _hurt_ and his head is already killing him. Shifting his weight onto his right side, he uses his right hand to try and get purchase on the ground, and his right foot to dig into the sand behind him. He moves half a foot forward and stops, breathing heavily and unable to believe quite how much this hurts. His head swims and he blacks out.

  
On the third day he almost gives up. His body screams in agony every time he moves, he keeps passing out and he’s had to cut his water intake in half just to make it last. He lies face down in the sand, the square of material he’d cut from his ‘chute spread over his body and offering a little protection from the sun, and tries to find any strength to carry on. He closes his eyes and, as always, she’s there.

This time she’s stretched out on the couch with her feet in his lap and his fingers run across the balls of her feet and play with her toes. She’s reading, completely absorbed in her book and he watches her absently brush a strand of hair away from her face when it falls in front of her eyes. She’d grown it for the wedding, but it’s starting to annoy her and he knows it’s not going to be long before she gets it cut short again. She looks up suddenly and smiles.

“What?” she asks.

“Nuthin’,” he answers, with a goofy smile plastered across his face.

“You’re staring,” she complains, but she’s smiling too. He lifts her foot up and sucks one of her toes into his mouth, making her giggle and swipe her hand at him jokingly.

He has to get home to her.

  
It takes him nine whole days to get help. Nine days in the blistering sunshine, his resolve to keep going fading with every passing hour, his skin cracked and dried out; but then he spots something in the distance. At first he thinks he’s finally cracked; that his head injury is just that bad and he’s seeing things. He drags himself closer anyway, praying with every last ounce of strength that he’s actually found some kind of life, and that they’re the good guys.

When he’s closer, he hears a shout and the sound of heavy boots on the sand, running towards him...and then the sound that is absolute heaven to his ears. An American accent.

“Jesus, look at the state of this guy,” someone says as they get closer. “Hey buddy, just hold on OK?”

But Jack can’t answer, he just lays where he is, breathing heavily, and feels a tear of pure relief slip from the corner of his eye.

  
**6.** Jack runs as fast as his legs can carry him, taking stairs two at a time, sprinting along corridors and almost knocking people out of the way in his hurry. He can’t miss this; apart from the fact that she’ll _kill_ him, he really wants to be there.

He bursts into her room -into a flurry of activity- and her eyes find his instantly. She smiles and her head slumps back against the pillow as she takes the mask away from her mouth, but then she’s gripped by pain again and he rushes to her side.

“You made it,” she pants. Her hair is slicked back from her face and he slips his hand into hers and kisses her sweaty forehead.

“’Course I made it,” he grins.

Another contraction grips her and pain contorts her face. She squeezes his hand tight and he winces a little, but knows if he complains about the pain, he’s going to get “the look”. It happens again and the doctor tells her to push.

Within a few minutes he’s staring into the face of his son, his exhausted wife slumped against the pillows, but he knows she’s not going to give in to sleep any time soon. He reaches out his finger and Charlie wraps his hand around it and grips hard. The nurse notices his hand swelling.

“Sir, you should go and get that hand looked at,” she says. Sara sits up a little and her jaw drops when she sees his hand swelling.

“Did I do that?” she asks and Jack just smiles, kisses her on the forehead and tells her it’s probably nothing.

  
He’s more than a little shocked when the doctor looks at his x-ray and tells him his wife has just cracked his 5th metacarpal.

  
**7.** He’s surprised they haven’t hurt him more. They seem to enjoy taunting him, psychological torture more than physical. They’re throwing him around a bit, but not really doing any damage; nothing he can’t handle anyway.

He stays stubbornly silent through it; refusing to give away anything other than his name and rank. They always take him back to his cell a little battered and bruised, but with no more information.

They try starving him, they try withholding water. They even try taking the young lieutenant from his cell in there with him and beating on him to get Jack to talk. The young officer’s eyes fix firmly on Jack’s with a clear message not to talk; he can handle it. Finding solidarity in each other, they both remain silent and Jack doesn’t even flinch when they dislocate the young man’s shoulder.

  
Then one day, the guard loses his temper. Jack knows he’s won when he swears in Arabic and lets rip on Jack’s body. The final blow is a boot connecting with his jaw, and the pain is too shocking for Jack to do anything but stare at the stream of blood flowing out of his mouth and pooling on the concrete beneath him.

  
**8.** The anger comes before the grief.

Anger at himself.

At the whole world.

At the sheer unfairness of it all.

He balls his fist and punches the hospital wall hard. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

When his mother arrives the next day, she forces him back to the ER and once again, the doctor shows him an x-ray of a cracked 5th metacarpal.

His son’s life bracketed by one tiny bone in his hand.

  
****

**9.** He knows she’s only trying to take his mind off it; trying to distract him from the agony as she splints his leg. But really, couldn’t she have picked a topic like hockey or something? Reminding him of all the broken bones he’s had before isn’t helping.

He wants to throw up. The pain is so bad and he’s pretty sure he’s cracked a rib too, but she doesn’t need to know that yet; she looks scared enough as it is. He grits his teeth as she finishes and tries very hard not to snap at her; she’s probably just saved his leg, but damn he can’t stand it any longer.

“Stop!” he yells and drags in ragged breaths, trying to stop the spots swimming in front of his eyes. If he passes out she’ll panic. She’s a good officer, but this situation is extreme even for them; their very survival looking like a bleak prospect at the moment.

He did wonder how she’s not really hurt, and the only explanation he can come up with is that she landed on him. He’d much rather be the one hurt. She can fix the Stargate and get them home.

  
He wakes up in the infirmary and thinks he’s never been happier to see the place. It’s warm. It’s safe. He doesn’t even feel any pain at the moment, which means they’ve got him on the good drugs. She’s slumped in the chair next to his bed, sleeping in what has to be a very uncomfortable position, but he doesn’t have the heart to wake her.[  
](http://kirsty841.livejournal.com/tag/stargate%20sg1)


End file.
